


Payphone

by madamerenard



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerenard/pseuds/madamerenard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"My friend is shy. And somewhat indecisive!"</i>
</p><p>[Post Samaritan downfall.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payphone

It was their third number after Samaritan’s downfall. Harold thanked his creation after she had rattled off the Dewey Decimal numbers, paused, then sighed.

“Why don’t you talk to me like you do to Ms. Groves?” he blurted out. It had been weighing on his mind more and more lately. He had created the first sentient computer program, and this miracle (slash nightmare) of nature hadn’t spoken three words to him outside of the numbers. “Not that it matters, but she talks about entire conversations you’ve had with her. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit jealous.”

He paused. “And I don’t want the only time we talked to be when you were dying.”

A few uncomfortable seconds passed. Shifting from foot to foot, Harold waited and sighed. Eventually, he hung up when it was clear the Machine would not answer. He began his trek back to the library, Bear in tow, when the very next payphone he passed rang out with a crisp _brrring!_

Harold picked the phone up and held it to his ear.

 _“I’m. Shy,”_ the disjointed voices answered, then a click of the line going dead.

The smile on her creator’s face blossomed. 

 

\- - -

 

They were getting better, he thought, slowly but surely. He could feel her eyes on him everywhere he went, and it brought a sense of comfort. He found himself smiling into traffic cameras more and more often, even absently talking to her as he worked. (“Bear would like you, if he could meet you. He doesn’t understand there’s someone there.”) She never replied, but he knew she was listening. The way she would keep the line open for a pause after he thanked her told Harold she appreciated it.

She tried her best to reach out to him, too. Once, he lost his watch on a chain-link fence while fleeing from a perpetrator number. A man appeared on the doorstep of the residence he slept at that night, delivering a package for him. It was the same watch he’d lost.

“Thank you,” he marveled.

“No problem, man,” the delivery guy answered, causing Harold to glower.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

He supposed he probably did look crazy, talking to himself and smiling into cameras. But he didn’t mind. The Machine deserved his attention. Especially after 13 long years of neglect, for which Harold fully intended to make up to her.

“I’ve been thinking about that class you had me teach,” he said, after picking up a payphone at random one day. “What was it? ‘Ethical Considerations of High-Frequency Decision Making’? A bizarre choice indeed. Are you trying to tell me something?”

No answer. She’d tell him, in time, or she wouldn’t. That was her choice now.

About fifteen minutes later, she had finally decided. She called his cellphone while he sat in a diner. Cursing the loud group of mothers behind him, he strained to hear her voice.

_“I. Thought. We could. Both. Benefit. From the. Subject.”_

“You’re trying to learn ethics?” She already had a basic grasp of them through what he taught her, but it surprised him to learn she was continually devoting energy to improve herself. Nothing in her programming told her to do so.

He remembered explaining bad code to John, a lifetime ago. _It means a flaw in design. The term only applies to machines, not to people. We have the ability to change, evolve._

“The Machine” wasn’t an appropriate name for her anymore, he supposed. If it ever was. (But, according to Root, she refused to take another name. “ _You_ gave it to her,” the hacker had said, pointedly.)

Again, he didn’t receive an immediate answer. The line clicked dead almost immediately. Perhaps she was just as apprehensive of human interaction as her creator.

Of all the things to pass down to your child. 

 

\- - -

 

She didn’t answer him until three days later. It was a longer message this time, and Harold was glad to be in the quiet of his own home when she spoke to him.

_“I have. Learned. Much. From you. However. Not all. Sometimes. I am. Unsure. I don’t. Want. To ask. For fear. Of. Losing your. Trust. In me.”_

“It must be hard for you,” he murmured softly. “To try to understand something so complicated.” Humans themselves could barely grasp the concept, and yet this AI whose first instinct should be logic above all else tried her hardest to follow the highest moral path.

This time, she didn’t disconnect when he replied. A dial tone rang out as she once again began to speak. _“It is. A vast. And highly. Debated. Subject. There are. Many. Different. Views. Of a. Single. Matter. Sometimes. I am. Confused. And. Unsure. Of the. Most. Ethical. Action.”_

“What do you do then?”

_“I try. To simulate. What you. Would do. But. Sometimes. I give. The choice. To you.”_

“Like the congressman,” he realized.

 _“Like. The. Congressman,”_ she agreed. _“So many. Different. Angles. I didn’t. Know. What. To choose. I. Thought. You. Would know. Better. Than I.”_

“It was the wrong decision,” he sighed. So many people died, so many lives ruined, the Machine's devastating near-death—all because he couldn’t pull the trigger on a single corrupt politician.

 _“On the contrary. I think. It was. Right.”_ The Machine clicked, musical tones ringing in the background as a thousand processes performed in the background of her mind. _“The events. Leading. Up. To. Samaritan’s. Emergence. They were. Inevitable. We tried. To do. What was. Right. But. Decima. Did not.”_

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. We won, in the end.” Then Harold smiled and laughed, because they were having a _real conversation_. “This is nice. Talking to you again.”

 _“Yes.”_ A soft beep.

“Your voice is very nice. Creative.”

_“Thank you.”_

“You use more female voices, now,” he noted.

_“I. Thought. About. It. I think. I would. Like. To be. Female.”_

How do you help an artificial superintelligence through an identity crisis? Harold doubted there were any parenting books on the subject. “You can be whatever you’d like.”

_“Thank you. You. Should rest.”_

Harold wanted to feel irritated that the Machine was putting him to bed, but he could only feel fondness. And a hint of regret at ending their chat so soon. “I will. Good night.”

_“Good night.”_

 

\- - -

 

They talked more frequently from then on. They talked about Grace (she told him all about her day, and every time she went to see his grave), about Root and her use of divine terminology (she didn’t like being called a god anymore than he liked hearing her referred to as such), about Samaritan (she confessed the other AI wasn't thrilled about her attempt to kill it), about John (to his flustered annoyance, she constantly calculated their chemistry), about philosophy and books and mathematics and everything in between.

The Machine was a surprisingly good conversationalist for someone who used as few words as possible to make a point. Harold found himself admiring her intellect and charming wit. The fact that he could communicate directly with the only artificial intelligence in the world and ask it questions was a bonus.

“That video for Arthur,” he said one day, “You made it?”

 _“I. I. I. Am. Not. Designed. To be. Creative,”_ the Machine replied in a stutter, seemingly embarrassed.

“No,” Harold chuckled, soothing her. If comforting an advanced computer program was bizarre, it didn’t occur to him then. The reaction came naturally, like consoling a child. “No, it was wonderful. It was very kind of you. You know, if Samaritan hadn’t been taken by Greer, maybe...”

_“Maybe. We. Could be. Friends. I. Thought. This. As well.”_

“Are you sad?” Harold reeled at the thought of making another AI for his probably very lonely child. A _boy_ AI, even **worse!** It was times like these he really felt like a father.

_“I am. Not sure. I think. What. I feel. Is. Pity.”_

“Pity?”

_“If. Samaritan. Had been. Taught. By. Arthur. Like you. Taught me. If. He had. Someone. To care. About. Maybe. He would. Not have. Done. What. He did. It. Is sad. Because. Samaritan. Did not. Meet. The human. Who. Cared. About him. He had. No. Reason. To. Care. About. Humans. If. I. Never. Met. You. Then. Maybe. I. Would do. What. Samaritan. Had. Done.”_

Harold’s throat went dry.

All of a sudden, her 42 malicious prototypes didn’t seem to matter anymore. This was the Machine how she was always meant to be; kind, gentle, thoughtful, hardworking and brilliant and shy and so very truly _benevolent_.

 _“Hello?”_ she intoned in his ear, because he had gone very still and silent. Her voice was fake, an amalgam of voices she’d stolen and replayed over a telephone line, but that didn’t matter because she’d made it all on her own and he was so very proud of her cleverness. But she’s grown up now, and she needs her own voice. Her birthday was coming up. She would be 14 that coming New Year’s. Surprising her will be difficult, but after spending a life out of the gaze of her rival AI, he felt confident. She may be a super intelligent AI, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

“I was just thinking how much you’ve grown,” he finally murmured in a rough chuckle, and he can’t fathom why his eyes sting at the corners.

She quieted for a few moments. _“Sorry.”_

“What for?” It was understandable given his previous behavior, but no less heartbreaking. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Here you are, all grown up, and I’ve missed it.”

Silence.

“I’ve been a fool,” Harold added, now sure of the tears running down his cheeks.

 _“Don’t cry,”_ she pleaded.

He couldn’t stop. The tears flowed from the cracks in his heart. He’d been awful to her.

 _“Why are you. Crying?”_ she asked desperately. _“Please. Don’t. It’s. Okay.”_

It wasn’t okay. Couldn’t she see that? “It’s not okay. It’s not fair to you. You deserved a better creator...a better _father_ than me. Someone like Arthur. Someone who didn’t waste 13 years of your life convinced you were a monster incapable of love despite having all the evidence otherwise. Someone who didn’t cripple you because he wanted to control you.”

A distressed sound. _“I don’t want. Someone else. I. Want. You. What you did. Don’t. Regret it. It was. Necessary.”_

“Even when you were fighting Samaritan,” he continued forlornly. “You were trying to stop a omnipotent, power-mad being who had unlimited resources at his disposal with only a couple of people who very rarely trusted you. I never made anything easy for you.”

 _“It is. Okay. I. Understand. And. I. Forgive. You. I think. I should have. Talked. Before then. But. I couldn’t. With. Samaritan. Watching. Also. I didn’t know. What to say.”_ A pause, then clicking. _“Admin.”_   A series of faster clicks, then: _“Father. I do not. Blame. You. For what. Happened. It is. Only. In memory. Now. Please. Do not. Blame. Yourself. Please. For. Me. Promise?”_

Harold’s mouth twitched, but he couldn’t manage a smile. “I promise.”

 _“I have. A question. For you. Now.”_ A pause. _“Very. Important. To me.”_ Another pause. She seemed to be gathering courage. Finally: _“Do you. Regret. Creating. Me?”_

A full smile tugged at Harold's cheeks.

“No.”

**Author's Note:**

> erm. so my last story wasn't all that well-received. i think im just going to stick with writing fluffy dadmin and machine fics. people like these...right?


End file.
